


there's no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin

by scorpiod



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Deepthroating, Established Relationship, M/M, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Snake Porn, Xenophilia, this is just an excuse for snake porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-02 12:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20276140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiod/pseuds/scorpiod
Summary: Set after the show. Crowley and Aziraphale are learning all sorts of new things about each other now.





	there's no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hearthouses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearthouses/gifts).

> Title taken from Hozier's _Take Me To Church_ because I listened to it on repeat while writing. 
> 
> This is a birthday gift for opheliahyde <3 I hope you enjoy.

It starts with Aziraphale removing his sunglasses and cupping his face, holding Crowley close with glasses out of reach, examining him. It was not often the angel made him uncomfortable, but sometimes Aziraphale's stare hardened, like blown out glass, gazing into him like he could see clearly through him, Crowley fighting the urge to squirm and twitch under his gaze.

(_starts_ is a misnomer; this started thousands and thousands of years ago, with them watching over Eden, perhaps even earlier, and this here was the two of them speeding along a foregone conclusion, to a payoff for all the waiting, rushing straight into an ending that was almost too terrifying for Crowley to process)

“Let me look at you, dear,” he says; his voice is soft and full of heat.

Crowley allows it, lets himself melt and burn under his stare, craves the way Aziraphale looks at him down to his core. He leans his head into Aziraphale's warm hands, watches the way his eyes flicker through incomprensible emotion as they rake cross his face. 

So gently it hurts, Aziraphale strokes the lines on his face, his brow, the slope of his nose, around his eyes. 

“You don't need to hide your eyes all the time,” Aziraphale says, a lightness in his voice. “It's not the fourteenth century anymore. Humans just think you're wearing contact lenses now.”

Crowley chuckles, low in his throat. “I like my sunglasses,” he says. “Then I don't have to interact with anyone I don't want to.”

Like a barrier, or a shield. A wall up between Crowley and the rest of the world.

Aziraphale _tsked_ at him. “Your eyes are quite lovely, that's all I mean.”

Crowley's throat goes dry. “Oh,” he says, all he _can_ say. 

Crowley's tongue slips out between his lips, forked and unbidden. 

*

The third customer this week runs out screaming, leaping for dear life as she realized there was a rather large snake curling up on the bookshelf next to her.

It's not his fault. He didn't do anything. All he did was _exist_ in snake form. He didn't even hiss at her. 

Crowley likes to slither around Aziraphale’s bookshop, finding nice warm places to relax or dark dank places to sleep. He could just go upstairs to where Aziraphale slept (on the rare occasions that he did; Crowley loved to sleep but Aziraphale preferred other vices) and while the screaming irritated him, it was fun to see people react to great big snake in a quaint little shop. 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale says, in a flat voice as he watched another customer leave. “How terrible for them.”

“Sorry,” Crowley says, his voice still sounding snake-like, overly emphasizing the _s_ sound of his words. He was only half apologetic. “She was touching your books.”

Aziraphale beames brightly at Crowley, as if he had been a particularly cute snake and not a large terrifying one. 

“Oh no,” Aziraphale says. “You don't have anything to be sorry for.”

*

Crowley knew Aziraphale's habits by now. 

He had watched him for centuries, paid close attention to the way he walked, the way he moved, the way his lips parted and his cheeks flushed. He knew the angel’s face when he ate a particularly good crepe, and recognized the long, low moan he made he ate something he would quickly call _scrumptious_ after first bite. He knew Aziraphale liked to steal food off his plate if he ordered dessert. Ever since that day in Rome when he allowed Aziraphale to _tempt_ him and watched as he ate oysters with a gusto he'd scarcely seen on anyone, let alone an angel of the Lord, Crowley had decided that he loved watching him eat. 

Crowley could sit still for hours at a time, drinking wine and watching Aziraphale try different foods , new desserts and pastries, and imported cuisines, positively obsessed with the pleasure the angel took in earthly things. 

_You're beautiful like this_, he used to think, but never dared to say it out loud. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale groans now, voice lower, deeper, more primal than when he has something tasty to nibble in his mouth, as Crowley swallows cock down, as far down his throat that he could take him. He cupped his balls in his hands and ran his tongue all along his cock, his shaft, the slit in the head, and all around the veins. His tongue can move in ways no human tongue could and it was unfairly easy for Crowley to just suck on his cock and never come up for air and let his throat squeeze around him, let his tongue wrap itself around his cock. Far too unfair in how easy it was. 

Aziraphale made the most beautiful, obscene noises like this—alternating guttural and low and higher, voice breaking, unable to speak. He was learning this, too, all these new things about Aziraphale, new contexts, new desires and pleasures. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale moans again, stroking his hair, fingers curling in the short strands, before drifting down. He grabs Crowley by the chin and urges him to look up, his other hand tangled in his hair. 

Crowley glances up, Aziraphale’s cock still stretching out his mouth and throat. 

Aziraphale is flushed and covered in a bright sheen of sweat that made him glow, eyes heavy-lidded and gazing at Crowley with love and very unangelic lust. 

Crowley never wanted to stop doing this. 

*

Aziraphale goes to sleep with Crowley—human shaped, most of the time, but Crowley finds himself slipping into snake form when he wakes up, something that hasn't happened in a while, waking up to find his body scales and pure muscle, like the first time he slithered all the way up to Aziraphale. 

He wants to apologize, but Aziraphale strokes Crowley's back, running his fingers over black scales, then down to the bottom, soft hands on his red softer underbelly. 

If snakes could moan or roll their eyes back, he would have, but instead, Crowley darts his tongue out, tasting the air around Aziraphale, his scent lingering in the cool breeze. 

He doesn't say anything, but more often than not, he wakes up all curled up as a snake, slithering around Aziraphale's hips and above his head, huddling for warmth. 

*

Sometimes Crowley is small, the size of garden snake, unthreatening and easy to step on. He can be any size he wants, but he likes being small enough to curl in an alcove somewhere, tuck his head into his scales, or perhaps even hide among a bookshelf and rest. 

But he could be any size, and Crowley always loved to experiment with form, going from small to big to anywhere in between. 

Aziraphale's patrons run fastest when he's a man-sized snake, huge and monstrous, almost dragon-like, asleep in Aziraphale’s large, comfy armchair. 

Aziraphale peers down at him when he finds him, a curious expression on his face, as he watches Crowley rest. Crowley can take the hint; he moves, sliding around the length of the arm chair so he's resting along the sides instead of the chair itself, waiting for Aziraphale to sit so he could curl in his lap and sleep there.

But Aziraphale does not sit down. Instead, he reaches out to play with the end of his tail, where his feet would be if he had any right now. It tickles. Crowley shivers.

“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are like this?”

Like breaking a spell, Crowley immediately turns back to his human male shape again, naked and limbs sprawled out, falling gracelessly on the ground, his yellow eyes wide as he gazed at him. 

“No,” he said, drawing in a sharp breath. “You haven't.”

*

Aziraphale sprawls out on the bed, resplendent and languid and gorgeous, legs parted for Crowley to slide in as he pleased. 

Crowley starts to change, shift back into a more human shape, when Aziraphale stops him, reaching out to stroke the bottom of his snout, along the edge of his powerful jaws. Crowley can't help but preen at the attention, pushing his head into Aziraphale's hands. 

“No,” he says, gently but firmly, almost an order in his voice that Crowley didn't see coming. If snakes could shudder, then he must have trembled. “Stay like this.”

Aziraphale meets his eyes, burning bright. “Please.”

*

Crowley fits the tip of tail inside Aziraphale’s stretched out hole—Aziraphale had done that part himself, slowly and languidly, slipping a finger inside himself, then another, and another—for Crowley’s viewing pleasure, for his own pleasure, letting out sharp little gasps and moans each time he crooked his fingers. He could miracle it, of course, simply will himself slick and stretched, but it's not quite the same, not nearly as fun. 

Snakes don't drool, but Crowley would have at the sight of Aziraphale's legs spread wide and his fingers inside himself. 

(_Are you sure?_ Crowley felt compelled to ask, because they've known each other for as long as time began, and yet this was also so terribly new and he couldn't fathom it quite yet, didn't want to push his angel too hard and send him running away.

But Aziraphale had gasped, moaned, said, _yes yes yes_)

Crowley wraps himself around Aziraphale, loose but firm enough so he could not be shaken away from him—his snake form over his shoulders, around his waist, around his sternum; he wrapped himself around him the way a boa would his prey, even if Crowley had more things in mind beyond _eating_ tonight, resting his head on his shoulder, tongue flickering out across his throat, tasting Aziraphale want and arousal, so sharp and heady in his mouth.

“Please,” Aziraphale says, panting heavily, “I'm ready.”

Crowley pushes the tip of his tail slowly inside, very slowly, not wanting to hurt him. Aziraphale spread his legs as wide as he can, urging him forward with his hands and his words, welcoming him, whispering sweet encouragements and filthy praises as he gradually enters him. 

He was slick enough so his tail went in easy at first, but eventually, he met resistance, and Crowley didn't want to push further—only the tip of his tail had the girth of his cock, and he only grew larger further up his body; the rest of him was far too much to shove inside Aziraphale in this form.

But he was in _love_ with the sight of him, the lower end of himself in Aziraphale's arse, as far deep as he wanted to go, in love with the heat and radiant warmth of Aziraphale wrapped around _him_. Very slowly, he began to move, pistoning in and out, relishing the sounds he made, the way his hole squeezed tightly around him, nearly clamping down, as if to keep him in and never let go. 

Aziraphale's head falls back, eyes falling shut, mouth open in a silent _O_, like he couldn't quite comprehend what was happening. “Oh dear. Oh my G—_Crowley_, that's so good.”

Crowley did not have erogenous zones there, like his cock would have, but it still felt _magnificent_ to slide in, pushing more and more of himself inside Aziraphale, press against his prostate and feel Aziraphale cling to him, crying out to him, _for him_. He wanted to tell him that he was gorgeous, that he loved him for allowing this, that he was beautiful, that this was the most angelic he's ever been, but all that came out was some soft sibilant hissing and somehow, that was enough.

Aziraphale begs for more, promising that he can take it, _please, Crowley_, and Crowley wants to indulge, all he ever wanted to do was indulge him and watch his face twist in pleasure, but instead he wraps the rest of himself around his cock, squeezing, just slightly, just enough to make Aziraphale gasp and throw his head back and call out his name. 

Aziraphale comes in waves, spilling white fluid all over them both, and nearly sobbing with pleasure, body arching up and arching into him, Crowley's name on his lips. 

*

Crowley, at last, allows his shape to change back to that of a man, but stays wrapped around Aziraphale, his lanky arms and limbs holding him close.

“Oh,” Aziraphale pants, tired, exhausted, come far too many times. His angel was wrung out, debauched and must have been thoroughly stretched out, but he reaches for Crowley and his cock, wrapping his fingers around him. 

Crowley lets out an undignified whimper. “Angel,” he says, trying not to tremble, “you don't have to do...” 

Truly, fucking Aziraphale like _that_ was a pleasure, more than words can say. Didn't matter if it was only his tail inside him, a small part of him, and not his cock. It felt good on every other level.

“I want to,” Aziraphale says, and proceeds to exhaust Crowley in turn. 

*

When they're done for the day, Crowley crawls up Aziraphale's body, peppering him with kisses, his tongue sliding out to taste the salt and sweat on him. Crowley wonders if there was something extra holy about him like this, as Aziraphale glows in post orgasmic bliss—thinks this should be as holy as any other act Aziraphale does, as sacred as a miracle or prayer.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, with the tone of someone who had just come to discover some profound truth, “we should do this more often.”

Crowley chuckles. “Angel,” he states, meeting his eyes, making sure they're looking at each other, that Aziraphale is watching him. “You know, I'd devour you if you let me.” He pauses, considering that. “In a nice way, of course. Nice for you. I'll make it so very nice for you,” he finishes, dropping his voice until it was low and sweet as honey. Aziraphale did so like honey. 

Crowley wasn't actually sure what he was saying, babbling at this rate, and he wasn't sure it mattered. All that mattered was that he wanted Aziraphale to know _I'm yours_, as sure as he knew anything else. 

Aziraphale mouth curved into a slow, leisurely smile. “I think I would very much like that.”


End file.
